I flip the channel and find another discussion on MSNBC detailing Emmett’s net worth (a figure that seems absolutely unimaginable) and whether or not it would be prudent for us to have a prenup.

Suddenly, I’ve hit my limit. I switch off the TV with a shaking hand.

The suite plunges into silence.

My gaze drifts to the table where room service arranged my breakfast earlier. A New York Times rests beside my carafe of coffee. I push off the bed and hurry over, whipping open the newspaper and tossing sections away—Business, Sports, Arts, Science—and at first, I’m relieved to find nothing. Then I realize I missed it back on the front page. Not right at the top, but down beneath the fold.

Emmett Mercier, heir to the luxury conglomerate GHV, to wed Boston society darling Elaine Davenport in what will surely be an extravagant, star-studded affair.

I don’t read the rest. I let the newspaper slip from my fingers and flutter to the ground as panic grips me. Does my grandmother know about all of this? Of course. Yes, she would have had a hand in it. I’m sure she pre-approved every photo I just saw on TV.

Does Emmett?

Was he warned of the announcements today or is he finding out the same way I am?

“I won’t go through with this.”

He made that abundantly clear to his father, so a part of me thought perhaps he would succeed, thought even without my influence, the betrothal would die a swift death.

But here we are, engaged in the public eye and yet strangers behind closed doors. We could have been friends. We were friends of sorts, though I realize now there might be no coming back from this. Emmett never intended to marry, at least not on his father’s terms, and the very fact that I’m the person his father is forcing upon him must feel like a sour betrayal. Never mind about our teasing and flirting and kissing—that was before, in another life. I have no doubt he wants nothing to do with me now.

Directly before me, a black Carolina Herrera gown hangs pristinely on the closet door. It’s magnificent. It has a strapless neckline and crisp vertical seams running down the bodice that create a figure-flattering taper at the waist. Then it transforms with slight pleats into a dramatic ball gown that will float with every step I take at the St. John’s Alumni Fundraiser.

Oh god.

The sinking dread I’ve been contending with since Italy is back with a vengeance. The breakfast I thought I would be able to force down now seems like a herculean task, but I still try. There’s no way around it. I have a long day ahead of me.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Emmett

“Okay, I give up trying to guess. What’s going on?” my brother asks.

I don’t pay him any attention. It’s easy enough to ignore him while we stand side by side at the fundraiser.

“Earth to Asshole. Come in, Asshole.”